


Plastic Solar Systems

by gurglesnaps



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Death, I'm Sorry, Not Canon Compliant, Possibly triggering?, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 15:15:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4840304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gurglesnaps/pseuds/gurglesnaps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A kind of melodramatic piece on how I imagined Claudia dying because I wasn't too happy with how little it's been addressed in the series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plastic Solar Systems

**Author's Note:**

> I'm very sorry that this isn't canonical because it's kinda a pet peeve of mine when fanfiction doesn't follow the canon but I thought I would put my own spin on this piece? Also this is my first piece ever on AO3!

We sit staring at the stars together, her hands chilly against mine.  
Her fingers are skinny and dry and cold but I hold her anyway.  
If I let go, she will too and the plastic solar system above my head is too big for a lonely boy and his broken father to travel alone.  
My hand feels stiff and sore like my eyes and my heart and maybe her lungs.  
We are silent because talking would be giving into the choking feeling in my throat or the way her fingers keep loosening around mine before tightening again, each time weaker than the one before.  
Her fingers slowly uncurl from around my hand and I notice how small it is.  
My hand.  
It is small and pale with long thin fingers, just like hers except she has a silver ring on her fourth finger and a plastic clamp on her pointer.  
Dad says it's called a pulse oximeter.  
I wait for her fingers to wrap around me again but it's taking longer than it has before.  
I try not to notice how Dad's breathing sounds forced and heavy or the clatter of tennis shoes on the hard linoleum floor.  
People with pastel pajamas on are crowding around us and our solar system feels cramped and suffocating and loud.  
It's all too loud, my ears are throbbing and it's hard to focus on our hands the same way.  
Mine looks too small for it's fingers, a little like an alien but the clamp they have on Mom makes her look like E.T.  
Mom's hand hasn't moved for a long time so I look up at her face.  
It is loose and relaxed, propped up on hard white pillows so she can look up at the stars we stuck to the ceiling above her bed.  
I don't like the bed.  
It is hard and white and thin just like the pillow and the blankets and the walls.  
Her bed at home is big enough for three with puffy pale green blankets and fat pillows.  
Maybe if she were in the bed at home her mouth would be smiling and her thumb would be rubbing against the back of my hand.  
Dad's breath comes out in wheezing huffs and I want to yell at him to stop.  
Mom needs all the air in the room if she's ever going to laugh again.  
I want her to laugh again but not like she's been doing it since we came to this room.  
When she laughs in this room sometimes her lip splits and her giggles choke off into hacking coughs.  
I want her to do it like she used to.  
Head thrown back and eyes crinkling shut.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
Why won't she laugh all pretty like she used to?

**Author's Note:**

> AUGH! It's super cheesy but I think it's kinda cute? Maybe?


End file.
